Deadland: Untold Stories of Alice in Deadland (Alice, No. 5) (16 page)

That was when she saw him. The Biter was wearing pink bunny
ears of all things. That in itself did not strike Alice as strange. When
someone was bitten and joined the undead, they just continued to wear what they
had been wearing when they were turned. Perhaps this one had been at a party
when he had been bitten. The first Biter she had shot had been wearing a
tattered Santa Claus suit. Unlike kids before The Rising, she had not needed
her parents to gently break the news that Santa Claus was not real. What was
truly peculiar about this Biter was that he was not meandering about mindlessly
but seemed to be looking for something. The Biters were supposed to be mindless
creatures, possessed of no intelligence other than an overpowering hunger to
bite the living. She braced herself, centering the crosshairs of her scope on
the Biter’s head. He was a good two hundred meters away and moving fast, so it
was hardly going to be an easy shot.

That was when the Biter with the bunny ears dropped straight
into the ground.

Alice looked on, transfixed, and then without thinking of
what she was getting into, ran towards the point where the Biter had seemingly
been swallowed up by the ground. Her heart was pounding as she came closer. For
months there had been rumors that the Biters had created huge underground bases
where they hid and from which they emerged to wreak havoc. There were stories
of entire human armies being destroyed by Biters who suddenly materialized out
from the ground and then disappeared. However, nobody had yet found such a base
and these stories were largely dismissed as being little more than fanciful
fairy tales. Had Alice managed to find such a base?

Her excitement got the better of her caution, and she ran on
alone. She should have alerted her sister, she should have called for
reinforcements, she should have done a lot of things. But at that moment, all
she remembered was where the Biter had dropped into the ground and what would
happen if she had truly found an underground Biter base.

She was an excellent shot, far better than most of the
adults in the settlement, and she was fast. If there was one thing she had been
told by all her teachers since she started training, it was that she was a born
fighter. She could put a man twice her size on the mat in the wink of an eye,
and she had shown her mettle in numerous skirmishes against the Biters. Yet she
was not allowed to lead raids far from the settlement. That had always grated,
but with her father being one of the leaders of the settlement, she was unable
to do anything to change that. He claimed that her excellent shooting and
scouting skills were better used in defensive roles close to their settlement,
and had promised her that when she was older he would reconsider, but she knew
that was a nervous father speaking, not the leader of their settlement.

This could change all that.

Suddenly the ground gave way under her and she fell. She
managed to hold onto her rifle, but found herself sliding down a smooth, steep
and curving slope. There seemed to be no handholds or footholds for her to slow
her descent or to try and climb back up. She looked up to see the hole through
which light was streaming in disappear as the tunnel she was falling down
curved and twisted.

Alice screamed as she continued falling in utter darkness.

***

ABOUT
MAINAK DHAR

Mainak Dhar is a cubicle dweller by day and author by night.
His first `published' work was a stapled collection of Maths solutions and
poems (he figured nobody would pay for his poems alone) he sold to his
classmates in Grade 7, and spent the proceeds on ice cream and comics. Mainak
was a bestselling author in his native India with titles published by major
houses like Penguin and Random House and with one of his novels (Herogiri)
being made into a major motion picture. In early 2011, he began to use Amazon
to reach international readers through his ebooks and became one of the leading
independent authors in the world with more than 100,000 books sold in his first
year. Mainak is one of the top selling horror authors on Amazon worldwide and
in March 2013, became the #1 bestselling Horror author on Amazon, momentarily
unseating Stephen King. He has thirteen books to his credit including the
bestselling Alice in Deadland series. Learn more about him and contact him at
mainakdhar.com
.

BOOKS
IN THE ALICE IN DEADLAND SERIES

Alice in Deadland

Through The Looking
Glass (Alice in Deadland Book II)

Off With Their Heads
(The Prequel to Alice in Deadland)

Alice in Deadland:
The Complete Trilogy

Hunting The Snark: An
Alice in Deadland Adventure

Deadland: Untold
Stories of Alice in Deadland

CHRONICLER
OF THE UNDEAD: FREE EXCERPT

A new thriller from the author of the Amazon.com bestselling
Alice in Deadland trilogy.

When there were still people around to talk to, I would
introduce myself as a drinker with a writing problem. It sounded witty at the
time, and certainly got a smile once in a while from the ladies. None of that
matters now. There are no people left to read my books, and nobody left to
listen to my attempts at wit.

Now it’s just me, sitting in my house on the hill, watching
the undead rampage through what we humans once called our world. I sometimes
wonder why I still live when those much younger, stronger, smarter and fitter
than me perished. Maybe it’s just dumb luck. But maybe I am being left alive
for a purpose. Nobody may have cared much for my novel, but maybe this is what
I was meant to write. Maybe this is what I was meant to be.

The chronicler of the undead.

This is my story.

Available now on paperback and ebook on
Amazon.com

When there were still people around to talk to, I would
introduce myself as a drinker with a writing problem. It sounded witty at the
time, and certainly got a smile once in a while from the ladies. While I’d
never have admitted it back then, it put a thin cover of wit over two problems
that haunted me – the fact that I couldn’t seem to sleep without a drink and
that for all my efforts, nobody seemed to want to read what I wrote. None of
that matters now. There are no people left to read my books, and nobody left to
listen to my attempts at wit. And yes, I think I will have to learn to sleep
without alcohol.

Now it’s just me and this notebook, sitting in my house on
the hill, watching Them rampage through what we humans once called our world
with me as the only witness. Actually, there may be others out there, but after
three months of not seeing another human being, I am beginning to wonder if
anyone else survived, at least as a human. I’m certainly not going out to
check. I may have been lucky so far, but am not about to tempt fate by
venturing out among Them.

I sometimes wonder why I still live when those much younger,
stronger, smarter and fitter than me perished. Maybe it’s just dumb luck. Maybe
after laying our world to waste to fulfill whatever whim He wanted to satisfy,
God showed a perverse sense of humor by leaving a good-for-nothing like me as
the last remnant of the human race. But sometimes when I see Them at the foot
of the hill while I scribble away, I wonder if I am being left alive for a
purpose. Nobody may have cared much for my novel, but maybe this is what I was
meant to write. Maybe this is what I was meant to be.

The chronicler of the undead.

Day 94. The day I was forced to go cold turkey
.

I am beginning my journal ninety-four days after everything
got seriously fucked up. Why now? Not that there are any shrinks out there to
analyze my motivations, but perhaps one of them would have taken a shitload of
my money to tell me that this is when I got over the initial shock of what I have
seen unfold. The more prosaic truth is that this is the day when the bungalow
where I’ve been shacked up for the last three months finally ran out of
alcohol. Now that I’m not wasted half of the time, I need to find something to
occupy myself with, and why not get back to what I once thought I was meant to
do? Write.

Of course, there’s no laptop, so I’m doing it the
old-fashioned way, and my hands are shaking as I write on this old notebook.
Maybe it’s just the cold. It is bitterly cold here in Sikkim, given winter is
almost upon us, and I’m thankful this bungalow still has a functioning
generator. I have no idea how long it will last, and if it stops working before
peak winter hits, then I am in seriously deep shit. But for now, it’s warm
enough, and I can still afford the luxury of sipping hot soup from one of the
several cans stockpiled in the attic.

They’re all over the valley down below, and I saw several
hundred roam through the city, or what remains of it. It’s hard to understand
what they’re trying to do, but they shuffle about, tearing down roofs and walls
seemingly at random, and occasionally turning on each other. Those fights are
never pretty affairs, and inevitably end with the loser being literally torn
apart. I saw a fight this morning through my binoculars and it took some
serious effort to keep my breakfast down.

All day, I watched Them and afterward, as I have done for
the last three months, turned on my mobile phone for five minutes. Still no
signal, and no hope of contacting anyone outside. I checked the radio yet
again, and there was as usual no music other than the greatest hits of the
Static Brothers. I left the TV on for some time as I always do, in the hope
that someone will broadcast something and I’ll learn a bit more about what’s
going on in the world, or if the world as I once knew it even exists. But
partly, I leave it on because the hiss of the static at least provides some
background noise, and makes things less lonely.

My hands are shaking even more as I end the entry for the
day. Man, I could do with a drink. I just hope I can sleep tonight. They insist
on coming out in even greater numbers at night, and I can hear their screeches
and moans all around me. The alcohol at least helped shut some of that out. Oh
yes, and it helped me ignore the stench they carry with them. Forget all the
crap you read and see in zombie movies and books. What you most need to survive
a zombie apocalypse is not a shotgun, but a bloody can of air freshener.

Day 96. Love in the time of zombies.

I was in too foul a mood to write yesterday, and for a while
it looked as if my journal would not make it beyond its first entry. I barely
slept the night before. Not having had my nightcap didn’t help my mood and They
were out in larger numbers that I had ever seen them, screeching away as if it
were some frigging zombie rock concert. In the middle of the night, I was so
mad that I grabbed the rifle and was about to go out and take a few potshots,
but then sanity prevailed. They’ve left me alone till now, why mess with them?
Besides, if I ever feel suicidal, putting a bullet in my brain would probably
be a better way to go than being eaten alive by Them.

However, last night I slept surprisingly well. Perhaps it
was the backlog of sleep catching up on me or perhaps my body is adapting to
the lack of drink better than my mind is.

So here I am, back at the desk overlooking the valley. There
are only a couple of Them visible now. A few minutes ago, out of curiosity, I
took a look through my binoculars. One of them had been a young girl, and she
was still wearing the brightly colored clothes that you see so often among the
mountain folk here. The other was a man who was wearing tattered jeans and a
bloodied vest. The writer in me started thinking that perhaps they had been a
couple who had been turned and were still together. Did They feel any such
emotions even after turning into the blood-soaked ghouls that they now were?

That line of thinking ended abruptly when the male grabbed
the female and snapped her neck before biting deep into her flesh.

Day 97. How it all began

I spent the morning making sure none of Them had come any
closer to the bungalow I now call home. The winding path leading up the hill
was still unmarked and there was no sign of any of Them nearby. I remember my
heart pounding as I ventured out and I was so relieved to be back inside, and
thankful that my former employer had kept such a well-stocked getaway to host
his Nepalese mistress. There was lots of bottled water, canned food and as I’ve
mentioned, a pair of binoculars and a rifle. It’s an ancient Lee Enfield .303
of the sort cops still favor in India, but it’ll do the job at long range, and
if They get too close, I doubt my one good leg will carry me too far before
They get me. Once I got back, I started thinking about this journal and decided
that my random musings aside, in case anyone ever chances upon it, I may as
well serve some useful purpose by recording what has been happening.

Don’t ask me how it all began, because I have no frigging
clue. I was at a local watering hole, having been dismissed for the night,
drinking Tsing Tao beer brought in from across the Chinese border and getting
smashed with a couple of other ex-Army types. The chick on TV was talking about
some virus. Different networks had different names for it, but the one that
seemed to stick was Wild Dog Virus. You’ve got to hand it to whoever comes up
with these names. Mad Cow and now Wild Dog. But unlike all the previous animal
monikers, this one did not go away with the media frenzy far exceeding the
death toll. This one spread like wildfire. It took just a couple of days for
the major cities to be affected, and in little old Gangtok, while we were
initially untouched, we watched it unfold on TV screens. That was when the toad
I had for a boss bolted and left me here in his holiday retreat.

Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. Before I get to my boss
and how I happened to be appointed Guardian of his Weekend Fornication (now, is
that a cool job title or what? If I ever get such a gig again, and assuming
there’s anyone left alive, let alone horny old business tycoons, to offer me
such a job, I’ll ensure that’s what they print on my business card), let me
tell you a little bit about myself.